Sun Slaves
Sun slaves of lengthy stature,
rising higher than a peacock,
a knoll, a Cyprus, a mountain,
up through the clouds,
beyond the borders of sight,
with their muscles of granite,
with servile minds and gracious tears,
duteous hands and lofted feet,
hearts pumping molten steel
through sinewy veins of leather,
cognizant eyes that watch for the dawn,
wiry fingers that grasp the edges of the
cold, dark drapery that hangs over the
sky and hides the phantoms of the night,
flinging it open to reveal the morn,
picking up the sun with his strong back,
holding it up in reverence to the Gods,
setting out on a westward journey,
shouting to the grasses to rise up,
playing with the clouds along the way,
sometimes hiding behind to
make them feel relevant,
staying on course like a flock of geese,
weathering the storms
and the prevailing winds,
growing tired but yet persevering,
dreaming of the restful nights,
the cooling breeze that will
brush against his skin,
the end of his dutiful journey
when the sky turns to orange
and crimson and yellow and red,
when the sea swallows him up
as he sleeps with the fishes
‘til the morn again.
